


A Sleepless Night in the City

by RileyC



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types, World's Finest - Fandom
Genre: Angst and Feels, Eye Rolling Galore, Flashbacks, M/M, The Infamous Cruise Revisited Yet Again, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-23 16:13:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7470372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyC/pseuds/RileyC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The kidnapping would have been enough for anyone else's night. For Clark and Bruce, that's just the kickoff to a stroll down memory lane.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sleepless Night in the City

**Author's Note:**

> The following fic contains tropes and blatant fan service that may or may not be compliant to canon past, present, and future. 
> 
> (AKA A certain comment still makes me grumpy. :ahem:)
> 
> Also: The rating may go up a tad in the next chapter.

**_I._**

Jim Gordon had to admire the man. Except for how his jaw was clenched, and that incessant drumming of his fingers, no one would guess Bruce Wayne was currently strung tighter than the strings on a violin.

Frustrated himself at the inaction forced upon them, Jim couldn’t even offer the assurances that were a policeman’s stock in trade. They both knew how badly things could go, how narrow the margin for a happy outcome.

All around them the party whirled on. Another charity gala full of glittering people dancing and laughing and boozing it up, all of them oblivious to the private drama playing out over in this corner of the ballroom. Jim had beefed up security in anticipation of the usual suspects. He hadn’t prepared for this. Hell, if he hadn’t been standing with Wayne and watched his face turn ashen as he read the text, Jim would likely be as clueless as everyone else.

****

**Are you missing something, Mr. Wayne?  
** **If you want him back alive and in one piece  
** **it’s going to cost you 50 million $$.  
** **You will be contacted with instructions.  
** **You and your friend the Commissioner are  
** **under observation.  
** **Don’t be stupid.**

An attached picture had shown Damian Wayne, in what looked like a riding costume, tied to a chair, duct tape across his mouth and indignant fury in his eyes.

There was that at least: the kidnappers had no idea who they had gotten hold of. Jim drew a sliver of comfort from that. He hoped Wayne did, too.

He looked around at the crowd, checking for anyone suspicious eyeballing them. No one pinged his cop sense. It could be any one of the revelers keeping them under surveillance. If it wasn’t a bluff. If the kidnappers hadn’t hacked into the hotel’s CCTV system.

Jim expelled a deep breath and took off his glasses to polish the lenses. He eyed the manicured fingers as they continued to tap, tap, tap against the table top. He understood the man needing to bleed off some tension, but his fingers were going to start bleeding if he didn’t stop soon. You’d think they would have cramped up by... Struck by something, Jim put his glasses back on and kept watching those drumming fingers. Wayne had nudged the lacy tablecloth aside just a bit, so he could have direct access to the marble top. So the cloth wouldn’t muffle the sound?

Not that there was much sound to the irregular tapping.

Or was it without form, without meaning? The longer Jim watched, the more he started to question that. There was a pattern, he realized. No kind of Morse code S.O.S. Jim could recognize, but if you paid attention a pattern did start to emerge.

Who on earth could pick up on a sound that minuscule? You’d have to be some kind of Supe-- Oh. Of course.

Sensing Jim’s stare, Wayne looked around at him. He didn’t say anything or even risk a nod. There was something in his eyes that confirmed Jim’s conclusion. There wasn’t a lot of hope behind that look, though. Jim could understand that. Like wishing on a star, you just had to take it on faith.

Jim’s own optimism had just increased by a fraction.

Wayne’s phone went off right then.

Volumes passed between them in that instant. As the second ring began, Jim nodded encouragement. Wayne nodded back, had to clear his throat before he answered, thoughtfully putting it on speaker.

“Bruce Wayne.”

“Mr. Wayne.” The voice was obviously disguised. “Are you ready to d-- What the fuck’s that?!”

Both men stared at each other, chafing at being unable to act as alarm and agitation carried over the phone. Crashes, thumps, voices raised in anger and panic--”How the fuck is _he_ here?!” Was that a scream? Jim leaned closer to listen, desperate to sort out the sounds, wincing as gunfire exploded and drowned everything else. He risked a look at Wayne, and looked away as quickly.

Knuckles white as he gripped the phone, voice hoarse, Wayne demanded, “Damian? Damian, are you there?”

Crackles and pops and then, “Your son is safe, Mr. Wayne. I’m bringing him to you.” The whole world knew that voice; Jim had heard it in person more than a few times. He’d never quite gotten over expecting it to sound more like the voice of God.

It was exactly the voice Bruce Wayne needed to hear--well, one of them. He had sagged down in his chair at the first words, relief knocking him for a loop. He perked up immediately, re-energized on the spot as another voice, pitched high and cranky, carried over the speaker. “I am perfectly well, Father. It was unnecessary to send assistance as I had the situation well in hand and was preparing to launch my escape plan.”

Wayne rolled his eyes and instructed, “Use your public voice, Damian.”

A pause, then, “Very well, Father. I am grateful and relieved.”

Jim bit his mustache to subdue a smile that wanted to break out.

There was the sound of a scuffle on the other end, Damian’s outraged voice announcing, “Father, he means to carry me!”

Wayne sighed, put his head in his hand for a second. “Damian, just this once, cooperate.”

A short, affronted huff on the other end, then, “Very well, Father. Be it noted I shall lodge a grievance later.”

“So noted.” Wayne shook his head. “Superman? Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Wayne. We’ll see you in a few minutes. Are you ready?” This was directed at Damian.

“Have I a choice?”

“Afraid not.”

A dismissive sound from Damian, then, “Very well, then. Let us proceed.”

“How’s that? Are you comfortable?”

“It will suffice,” Damian said, evidently getting settled in for the trip. “Don’t you say the thing?”

Jim looked at Wayne; Wayne shook his head. Good to know they were as stumped as Superman sounded on his end. “What thing?”

“The,” Jim had the impression Damian was making some kind of gesture, “thing, when you are about to launch yourself.”

Apparently comprehending now, Superman said, “That’s media misrepresentation, actually.”

Silence then, and Jim shared another speculative look with Wayne. He had the funniest sense a stare down was taking place on the other end--and that Superman was losing. An exasperated sigh could be heard, at any rate, followed by, “Fine, then.” Then, in a heroic tone of voice, Superman declared, “Up, up, and away!” A whooshing sound smothered all other sound, and Jim blew out his own sigh, torn between laughter and tears, and letting go of his own tension. Wayne looked like he’d gotten ten years of his life back.

Things weren’t quite wrapped up yet, although the worst was certainly past. Just as Jim was signaling Harvey Bullock to come over, Wayne caught his arm. Jim followed the direction of his gaze, nodded. “I see him. Recognize him?” The suspect didn’t ring any bells for Jim. Average height and weight, bland as tapioca in a waiter’s uniform, except for the nervous way he glanced around as he pocketed a cell phone, and the sweat breaking out as he searched for a swift exit.

“I recognize him,” came the confirmation, in a voice that had turned uncanny, a voice that wasn’t quite Bruce Wayne anymore. “He works at the riding academy.”

That explained a lot, Jim thought. “We should have a word with him then,” he said. “The boy’s safe. Remember that. Don’t--” Jim looked around, jaw working as a familiar aggravation hit him. Between one blink of the eye and another, Bruce Wayne had vanished into thin air. “Damn it!”

“What’s up, Commish?” Harvey Bullock asked as he came up, brushing crumbs off his tie.

Jim brought him up to date, all the while scanning the room. He caught sight of their person of interest, making a beeline for the French doors that led onto the terrace. No sign of Wayne, though.

“Huh. Richie Rich must not be that worked up about his kid,” Harvey observed.

Jim tracked his line of sight and found Wayne at last--taking a turn around the dance floor with Veronica Vreeland, no less. The trajectory they were on, they were going to foxtrot right into the person of interest.

Sure enough, Wayne swung Miss Vreeland safely out of the way, while he crashed right into the suspect. They both went to the floor in a tangle, taking a another waiter and his drinks tray with him. Amid the clatter and crash of breaking glass, the suspected kidnapper got a good look at who had taken him down, maybe a glimpse of something lurking behind that face. Whatever it was, it was enough to make the suspect scramble frantically to his feet and lunge for the doors. He almost made it. In the process of righting himself, Wayne tripped over the struggling waiter and smacked into the suspect again so that the suspect crashed through the French doors and went sprawling onto the terrace.

Jim quickened his step and got there before Wayne could offer and further assistance. As the party goers clustered around to watch, Harvey Bullock snapped cuffs on the suspect and was preparing to escort him out when there was a change in the air.

Looking up, Jim saw a figure silhouetted against the moon, majestic red cape billowing out as a careful descent began. Excitement rippled through the crowd. Bruce Wayne getting into some kind of fracas at a party might only be a temporary distraction, but even jaded Gothamites could still be enthralled by the sight of Superman coming in for a landing.

Interesting, Jim mused, how the effect was in no way spoiled by the small, squirming figure cradled in his arms.

“Father!” Damian cried out. “Command him to release me!”

With a display of infinite patience, Superman said, “Now there’s no need to fuss,” and set the boy down.

Disgruntled--mortified?--Damian glowered around at everyone until his eyes lit on one figure that emerged from the crowd.

A bit rumpled but otherwise unscathed, Bruce Wayne smoothed back his hair as he stepped forward. Crouched down, he gathered Damian to him as applause broke out from the onlookers. 

Jim noted that Damian appeared unaffected by his ordeal and far too cool for this sort of thing. It was a good mask. The way he burrowed into his father, arms wound tight around Wayne’s neck, told a different story. For his part, Wayne looked like he really had wished upon a star and was still processing that it had come true.

On his feet again, one hand on Damian’s shoulder to keep him close Wayne looked at Superman. “I really can’t thank you enough.”

“I’m just glad to have been of help, Mr. Wayne,” was the modest reply. 

Jim hated to intrude but there was still some police work to do. “Superman, I’ll need a statement from you about what happened tonight--and the location of the kidnapper’s hideout. You restrained them?”

Superman nodded. “Of course, Commissioner. And yes, they are restrained, sir.” A sideways glance at Wayne made Jim wonder if the kidnappers would be found dangling upside down from the rafters. Probably not; Superman didn’t work that way, from all that Jim knew. Still... 

He nodded, looked at Wayne and the boy. “I know you’d like to get this young fellow home but we need to get his account of what happened as well. You feel up to that, son?”

Damian stared at him as if questioning Jim’s faculties but confined himself to a dismissive sound. “It will take very little time, Commissioner. I was lured to the stables with news my pony was sick but this was a despicable ruse. The villains planned to chloroform me and--”

Wayne held up a hand to halt the verbiage. “Let’s save it for down at the station.”

“Very well. Will I get to interrogate the villains?”

“No.”

“But--”

“No.”

Damian grumbled something about the injustice of this but then, as something else occurred to him, “Is my pony unharmed?”

“We’ll swing by and check on the way home. All right?”

“All right.”

Wayne nodded, looked at him, then Superman. “We’ll see you all at the station, then.”

It wouldn’t even be the strangest assembly GCPD had ever seen, Jim reflected.

~~~

Bruce slowed his steps as he neared the kitchen. Voices carried from within and he had long been a zealous adherent of the forewarned/forearmed school of thought. A few minute’s eavesdropping informed him that Martha Kent thought Alfred’s hollandaise sauce could do with a smidge less dill. Precisely what constituted a smidge, and how this differed from a pinch appeared to be the crux of the matter. Bruce walked in just as Alfred was saying, “Yes, I _am_ certain a ‘pinch’ is not a ‘smidge.’ Perhaps your mother has an aversion to dill?”

Clark put down his fork to give that far more thought that it could possibly warrant. “You know what? That could be it.”

Alfred looked entirely too vindicated for Bruce to mention that, be it a smidge or a pinch, he could do without dill entirely. “Is that coffee fresh?”

Alfred cocked an eyebrow. “Would it matter?”

“Not much.” He took down a mug, the Always Be Batman one Tim had given him years ago, and poured out the life-sustaining liquid. He took a moment to savor the aroma before he took the first sip. Carrying it over to the table, he sat down as Clark went back to work on a generous slice of chocolate cake.

Since returning home, Bruce hadn’t done more than take off his tuxedo jacket and undo his bow tie. Clark, on the other hand, had found time to change into a pair of comfortably worn jeans and one of his ubiquitous cotton plaid shirts, with his glasses back in place as well. Deciding he could do better, Bruce undid his cuff links and rolled up his sleeves. For good measure, he unfastened a couple of shirt studs as well. There--casual.

Alfred deftly scooped up and pocketed the cuff links and studs.

“How’s Damian? Was his pony all right?” Clark asked. The way he pressed the tines of his fork against the plate, collecting the last cake crumbs, anyone would think Alfred wasn’t standing by with another slice.

“The pony is fine. Damian is settled down and sleeping. Finally.” Sure enough, here came another slice of cake. Bruce looked a question at Alfred, who rolled his eyes with an eloquence a teenager could only aspire to. A slice of cake was placed before Bruce before Alfred joined them with a cup of tea and some ginger snaps, however.

“Thanks, Alfred.” Clark beamed a smile at him.

Alfred aimed a pointed look at Bruce.

Bruce rolled his eyes with less aplomb. “Thank you, Alfred.”

“Hmm.” Alfred fastidiously dunked a ginger snap. “I trust Damian expressed his gratitude,” he said to Clark.

Clark took a drink of milk, nodded. “I thought he was very gracious.”

Bruce, not quite remembering it that way, shared a look with Alfred. “He did tell me you performed adequately. Coming from him that’s high praise.”

“It’s only natural he’d rate his dad as the best.”

“Hhn.” Bruce tried the cake; found it agreeable. When was the last time he’d eaten anyway? “I think he rates himself as the best. I come in second or third, depending on if he’s squabbled with Dick lately.”

Dick might not have been as hamstrung as Bruce had been tonight, but only Clark could have accomplished what needed to be done in so short a time. Some jobs really were for Superman and no one else, and not just the ones that required brawn. 

“Fortunate the two of you had worked out this secret code.” Alfred wasn’t shy about indicating he wanted to hear more about that.

Clark obliged. “It’s Kryptonian based. We thought,” he glanced at Bruce, “that even if someone could intercept it, they would never be able to to decipher it that way.” His expression grew more serious. “We’re going to have to revise it with more precision, though. I almost didn’t get ‘riding stable.’ There’s no Kryptonian equivalent,” he told Alfred.

Bruce nodded. “We need to practice it more. Set up some drills to work out any glitches.” And get around to working out how he would receive if it was Clark sending the code. That had been one of the sticking points they hadn’t ironed out. He hadn’t thought it would ever be needed. It was an intriguing challenge to see if they could devise something, but ultimately relegated to the realm of impractical contingency plans. “I didn’t think it would work.” The admission of that, the implications of it, were only just starting to hit him.

Could Clark really filter out the cacophony of the world and zero in on this one, infinitesimal sound? What would even prompt him to listen for it? He could be on the other side of the world, or on a moon of Saturn, or... Those thoughts had run on a non-stop loop as he’d sat there, tapping his brains out, afraid to believe but wanting to if there was even one hairsbreadth of a chance in hell.

He looked at Clark, knew he didn’t have adequate words, but needing to try all the same. “Clark, you know I’m not used to trusting--”

“Bruce, you don’t have to say anything.”

He glowered across the table at him. “Damn it, Clark, will you just let me say that you give me hope and I don’t know what the hell to do with that, but I’m grateful all the same?” He didn’t ease off on the scowl, and just dared him to say something self-effacing.

Clark looked down at his plate, scraping his fork around as he mumbled something.

“What was that?”

Clark looked up. “I said: that’s what the ‘S’ means.”

“Hhn.”

The impasse might have continued indefinitely, but for Alfred. “We’re certain the kidnappers weren’t operating on orders from Rupert Thorne?”

Still watching Clark, Bruce said, “There’s always a chance, but I don’t think so. It looks like the mastermind, if you can call him that, dreamed the scheme up as a means of setting himself up as a rival crime boss. Benji Schaeffer always has had aspirations of grandeu...” He stopped, struck by the guilty look that had flashed across Clark’s face. “What?”

“I...” He shrugged. “I might have held something back from Commissioner Gordon. It’s nothing that can jeopardize the case,” Clark hastened to add. “It’s just that...” He trailed off, pushing crumbs around on his plate, and looking troubled. “I’m not sure I should tell you.”

Well, this couldn’t be good. “Why not?”

Dead serious now, Clark looked at him, searching his eyes. “Because you’re going to blame yourself, beat yourself up, when there is no way you could have known what it meant.”

Utterly mystified, Bruce glanced at Alfred for some flicker of enlightenment. Finding none, he turned back to Clark. “If you wanted to keep it from me, you shouldn’t have said anything at all. You know I’ll find out.”

Brows drawn together, Clark turned that over, forced to concede the point. “There is that. All right.” He pushed his empty plate aside and propped his elbows on the table, linked his hands. “When I found the kidnapper’s hideout I heard Benji tell his gang that he had approached you--that is, Matches Malone--to see if you would come in on the job. He said you blew him off, wouldn’t give him the time of day, and that he couldn’t wait for the day when Matches came crawling to him, begging for a job when Thorne’s organization hit the skids.” He finished with a _‘There, happy now?’_ look.

Bruce remembered Benji approaching Matches with one of his big schemes. It was going to turn Gotham on its ear, Benji had said; Gotham hadn’t seen anything like it since the Waynes got wasted. It was going to put Benji Schaeffer up on the mountain looking down at Rupert Thorne and all the rest. That was just Benji, always talking a good game, making plans, but never with anything to show for it. And Bruce remembered he had indeed walked away before any details were divulged, because it was either that or punch Benji through the wall.

But the one time Benji really had something going...

“Goddammit!” Bruce slammed a fist down on the table, rattling the china and silverware.

Clark threw his hands out as if to say, _‘See, what did I tell you?’_ But it was Alfred who spoke up. 

“Master Bruce, Damian is quite well, certainly no worse for tonight’s experience than what he confronts every night that he goes out on patrol with you.” He looked at them both. “You say Mr. Kent here gives you hope? Well, be thankful that boy doesn’t even grasp that he was in real danger tonight because his father is Batman, and his father knows other heroes like Superman. That’s _his_ hope, whether he’s conscious of it or not. That’s what you take away from these events, not a fresh supply of guilt.”

He looked them over, nodded to himself, and stood up from the table. “Yes, well,” a glance at the clock--half-past one in the morning, “it’s time I retired. Some of us have to work in the morning.”

As he marched off, Clark sighed and said, “I guess he told us.”

“You should have told me,” Bruce said, still grumbly.

“And you reacted exactly the way I knew you would.”

Stumped for a retort, Bruce settled for another glare.

Clark rolled his eyes with nearly Alfred-like mastery as he got up and began gathering dishes. “Come on, the least we can do is wash the dishes for him.”

“Knock yourself out,” Bruce said, on his feet. “I have things to do.” 

Arms folded over his chest, Clark quirked a skeptical eyebrow. “Like what? You’re not going out.”

“I’m on standby.”

“Even Gotham shuts down for the night, Bruce.”

Tempting to pick a quarrel, demand to know what the hell _he_ knew about Gotham, and drive him away. Again. It wouldn’t be difficult. He could ask why was Clark even still here. He’d done his good deed. There must be a kitten up a tree in Metropolis that needed him.

The words were right there on the tip of his tongue, waiting. They would get the job done. It wouldn’t be forever; just long enough for the dangerous comfort of this moment to fade away. Clark would be back. He always came back.

Bruce drew a breath to speak, still he hesitated. He looked at Clark, the way he leaned back against the sink now. His expression was neutral but for the speculation in his eyes. There was an impression, though, that he was bracing himself for whatever spiteful thing Bruce was about to say. Impossible to tell which of them was more surprised when all he said was, “There’s a couple of outstanding cases I need to work on. World’s Greatest Detective, remember?”

Head tilted, still skeptical, Clark returned a look of disbelief. “Right.” The way he drew the syllable out, extra i’s in there somehow, underscored his suspicions.

“Right,” Bruce confirmed, his version brisker and more clipped. He nodded. “I’ll be in the Cave then.” 

“Yeah. Tell the bats I said hi.”

At the door, Bruce paused to turn back and tell him that was ridiculous. His attention was arrested by the sight of Clark at the sink, filling it with hot water and dish soap. His gaze lingered on the broad shoulders, drifted down the perfect V-shape--darted back up, but that didn’t help because he caught a glimpse of him up to his elbows in hot, sudsy water, and that threatened to unlock a set of memories Bruce would have liked to permanently delete.

While he hesitated there, Clark looked around at him, speculation sharp in his eyes. Bruce retreated, thinking that some case work was exactly what he needed after this roller coaster of a night. 

He didn’t tell the bats that Superman said hi.

~~~

Clark dried his hands on a dish towel and slung it over his shoulder as he went to the door. He lingered there and watched Bruce disappear down the hallway, wanting to call him back. Bruce might already have this night’s events tucked away and tidied up, but Clark still had some things to work through.

Bruce hadn’t been sure the code would work? Clark felt flattened when he thought about how it almost hadn’t. 

He supposed he had Rudy Jones and his idea of conserving resources to thank, _“Wouldn’t want to use you up too soon.”_ At that, Clark estimated he’d had roughly one-quarter strength left when Parasite had headed out to knock over First Metropolis Banking. It was enough, just enough, to break the chains Parasite had wrapped around him. Dragging himself up from the basement had drained what strength was left and he had collapsed in a hallway--right in a pool of light that poured down through a cracked and dirty skylight. 

Too exhausted to move, hoping there was enough sun, hoping Rudy Jones didn’t return while he was helpless, all Clark had been able to do was listen. At first there was nothing, just creaks and scrabbles; then the scrabbles resolved into the sound of mice in the wall. There was a hum of the world outside but all smooshed together and difficult to sort into individuals sounds. As he’d tried to focus, to filter out one sound and go from there, he had picked up on this dull, distant tap. Tap tap, tap tap tap, tap... There was almost something soothing in the rhythms at first, and for a few moments he had rested there, eyes drifted shut, cheek against the dirty, worn carpet, sunlight bathing him, as he listened to that tap tap tap. Out of the blue it all clicked, the meaning behind that code and who was sending it, and in an instant he was on his feet, crashing through the skylight as he took to the skies, with Rudy Jones left to dodge shards of falling glass as he’d walked in right at that moment.

Although on second thought, perhaps he was better off not sharing that information with Bruce. All he would receive in response, after all, was another scowl and a lecture on how if he would think first and act second he wouldn’t have walked into Parasite’s trap in the first place.

You never really knew with Bruce, of course. Bruce had meant to hiss and spit and chase him off tonight. X-ray vision was not required to see those particular wheels spinning. What had changed? Too much to hope that, this time, Bruce didn’t want him to go. Clark knew better than to get his hopes up. Yet there his optimism went anyway, daring to soar once more.

His head told him this was doomed, that some battles couldn’t be won. But his heart...? He sighed, turned back to the sink full of dishes. His heart was never going to get with that program. His heart didn’t even know there was a program.

There had been something in Bruce’s eyes, just for a moment there before he’d turned to leave. Something that hadn’t been shielded. Like a memory had nudged up against him for a moment before he could swat it away.

What memory, though? All Clark had been doing was filling the sink, soaping up his hands... Oh. Oh! 

So Bruce _hadn’t_ dismissed the cruise as a meaningless blip in his existence. And he hadn’t put Skrinji in a neat little box with KEEP OUT stamped all over it. That...meant something. Clark was certain of that much at least.

As he scrubbed away at the cups and plates, he did wonder if they could ever achieve some forward momentum that wasn’t reliant on being in crisis mode. It would make a change; be a novelty at least.

~~~

News of Damian’s abduction and rescue had hit the streets, of course, and as Bruce checked in with everyone he found it necessary to report what had happened multiple times. Dick, Cass, and Stephanie expressed the most concern; Tim leaned towards neutral; while Jason had remarked, _“Sounds like a bad deal. If you’d held out a couple days, the kidnappers would have paid you to take him back.”_

Bruce remembered Jason had always liked O. Henry.

It didn’t take long to discover Clark had it right tonight: even Gotham had turned in for the night. That was good news, he welcomed it--but he would have also welcomed a reason to suit up and head out. Pent up energy made it difficult to settle, to concentrate on the open cases. Maybe a workout; a few rounds with a punching bag ought to be enough to drain away all the tension.

Instead of getting up to suit action to thought, he pulled up another file. No mystery here, unless it was why he didn’t delete it. 

It was a front page piece for the _Daily Planet_ , byline Lois Lane and dated last February. The subject was a Valentine’s Day-themed cruise out of Gotham that had taken a catastrophic turn. The headline shrieked:

**BILLIONAIRE BRUCE WAYNE BELIEVED LOST AT SEA**

Below the fold, an insert informed readers that longtime _Daily Planet_ reporter, Clark Kent, was also thought to have perished.

Bruce stared, pensive, at the article. That’s where this had started, that damned cruise into the Bermuda Triangle...

~~~

“What are you even doing here?” Bruce asked as he scooted closer to the mattress edge. Much further and he’d be on the floor.

“Why do you assume I’m not taking a Valentine’s Day cruise?”

Bruce shifted around so he could glare at him for that non-answer. His mood was not helped by how comfortably Clark was sprawled out on his back, taking up as much room as possible.

After a few moments, Clark sighed and folded his hands on his stomach. “It’s an assignment for the _Planet_.”

“Since when do Lane and Kent cover stories like this?”

“Since we got on Perry’s bad side once too often.”

“Hhn.” Bruce settled back in a vain attempt to get comfortable. If there hadn’t been a massive foul up he would be in a luxury stateroom right now, alone in a a king-sized bed, and Clark Kent would be in steerage.

That was petty, but he felt petty just at the moment, crowded in a too-small bed, and his feet kept getting tangled up with Clark’s.

“So why are you here?” Clark asked. From his conversational tone of voice, anyone would think they did this all the time.

“Bruce Wayne is expected to take part in events of this kind.” They weren’t that far out from Gotham; he could call for a Wayne Enterprises helicopter to come pick him up.

“What’s the real reason?”

Bruce stared at him again. There were times he felt that Clark could see through him in ways that had nothing to do with x-ray vision. He didn’t like those times. “Why can’t that be the real reason?”

Clark’s knowing look grew sharper. No mean feat as he still had his glasses on. Did he sleep in them? 

“Fine,” Bruce said, as though Clark had been pestering him with questions. “I have reason to believe the Penguin plans to hijack the ship.”

On his side and propped on an elbow, Clark appeared to loom even closer. “To hold it for ransom, or is there something interesting in the cargo hold?”

“Both. Neither. My informant may have had faulty information.” The more he thought about it, the more he did begin to suspect this had been a wild goose chase. Perhaps a deliberate one. All the more reason to send for that helicopter.

“I vote for that one, your informant got it wrong.” Clark settled down on his side, facing Bruce. “A couple day’s vacation sounds good.”

He was vengeance, he was the night--he didn’t do vacations. 

Bruce didn’t say that out loud but Clark looked like he heard anyway.

He rolled over, away from Clark, and tugged on the blanket. This was going to be a long two days.

**Author's Note:**

> So... To take a break from "Disclosures," and recharge my batteries, I had this idea to haul out this idea for a fic best summed up as "Clark and Bruce visit the old Smallville swimming hole." There was every reason to believe it was going to be ready for the Fourth of July.
> 
> But then at the start of the road trip Bruce goes and says he owes Clark one, for Damian, and since that hadn't been previously in the script I, the author, was brought up short wondering, "All right, so what the heck happened to Damian?" Pondering commenced; a solution was found; it was employed... 
> 
> And, and I'm not quite sure when or how or why, everything took a right turn at Albuquerque, and this fic happened. No amount of deploying **K** eep **I** t **S** imple, **S** tupid could get it back on track.
> 
> Where I would have once thrown in the towel and decided it was hopeless, however, this time I kept on with it. Whether or not that was a good idea...? You shall be the judge(s).
> 
> It is slated to run two chapters, and the part two is already underway.


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